Rose Unchained
by Coconono
Summary: An orphaned Rose DeWitt Bukater is left in the custody of Caledon Hockley, who demands complete obedience and proper training out of his new ward. Rose struggles to please her new master, especially when she runs into Cal's young, charismatic business associate.
1. Princess

"Look at me when you talk to me."

Rose looked him in the eyes and whimpered, "Please sir can I come?" Sweat ran down her temples, and her red hair was plastered to the back of her neck. She was throbbing, shaking, reaching for the fulfillment of a deep and hollow longing. She could barely see or think straight, she wanted the release of ecstasy so badly.

"Beg me," was the stern command.

* * *

Only a year ago, she was her daddy's prim and proper princess. Sweet sixteen, Rose was still the red apple of her father's eye. Coming back from long business travels, he brought her trinkets and treats by the dozens—cashmere coats, satin heels, silk dresses, a pair of emerald earrings, pearl necklaces in every color, soft Mulberry leather book bags, suede gloves, watercolors from street artists in Paris, London, and Rome, decadent Belgian chocolates, and, of course, Rose's favorite: books. _Emma_, _The Yellow Wallpaper_, _The Great Gatsby_, _Hamlet_, and _Lolita_—rare early editions were all brought back for his dear darling Rose, who read them ravenously.

She begged him to stay longer, pouting until he agreed to work from home for a weekend or delay his plane trip till the morning, but even Rose couldn't convince Theodore DeWitt Bukater to cancel a business trip. Sure, when she was small and he was still young, it was easy to leave things in the hands of his assistants and take a prolonged summer vacation in Nice, or spend a December in Aspen, but in those last years business arrangements were crucial. Though he tried to hide it, there was a desperate, painful plea in her father's eyes: _Please, please don't think I'm failing you_, he seemed to say.

One of Rose's best memories is the day her father showed up, out of the blue, at Dice Willows School for Girls. It wasn't like him to come out into the country, but he showed up one clear September morning un-expectantly, saying his Manhattan flight had been delayed and he wanted to stop by to visit her. He was coming from London and dropped off a music box he'd picked up for her, a hand-painted porcelain wonder that played the sweet longing tune of Chopin's nocturne and had a poised ballerina dressed in pink spinning inside. "A ballerina for my little dancer," he told her. He took her and two of her best friends to lunch in town, then quickly dropped them back at school to make the next flight out.

"Come by more often!" Rose urged her dad over dessert, a decadent bread pudding with candied apples.

"Sweetheart, I wish I could spend every day of my life with you."

She was fourteen at the time. Two years later, a private plane carrying her father, five other passengers, and the pilot experienced engine problems, caught fire, and crash-landed into the mountains of India. There were no survivors. And so Rose's world collapsed.

Sweet Ms. Cakedust came into her room several hours after lights out and woke her up from a fitful rest (to this day, Rose wishes she could remember what she'd been dreaming about). Holding her hand, she calmly and sadly told Rose that her father had been killed.

Rose's screams were heard all the way into town. The other girls were in an uproar. All the lights came on. The teachers handed out deficiencies by the dozens. Rose screamed until her throat was raw. It wasn't until the headmistress, that dreadful Mrs. Freight, came in and shoved warmed milk and honey down her throat and clamped her mouth shut that she calmed down.

They gave her hot tea spiked with something that made her loopy and drowsy, so that the details of her father's death were delivered to her in frenzied bursts of wakeful cognition. For weeks she thought it was all just a dream. She came down with a fever and missed the funeral, hastily arranged by an uncle. She refused to accept the facts, instead waiting for the moment when her father would turn up, maybe a bit bruised from the crash, but otherwise alive and well. Or maybe he never got on the plane at all. Maybe he missed it. But, no, eventually the bodies were found. Tests performed. There was little flesh left to bury and lay to rest.

And now what would become of Rose? Her first visitors, upon being released from the school's sick ward, were her father's lawyers. Her mom died when she was small. The circumstances were suspicious. It was supposedly a car accident, but there was no evidence that her mother ever even tried to hit the brakes on the cold and still night when her Mercedes careened off the road and off the side of a bridge. Her parents' marriage was never approved of—her dad's parents thought her mother was a low-class gold digger (she was actually a kind and beautiful school teacher who her had fell in love with at the grocery store), and her mom's parents thought her father was a pompous asshole. So her mother's family wanted nothing to do with her—in fact, they chose to forget the pain of her mom's death by forgetting about Rose as well. As for her father's family, the lawyers explained that there was a deep and bitter power struggle. The DeWitt Bukater had dwindled to nearly nothing, after a series of over-expenditures and heavy stock losses. Too much had been borrowed. Too much had been staked. There was little, if anything, left to Rose at all. The house and most of her father's belongings would need to be sold by the bank to make up for the debts and losses.

By that point, Rose didn't care. She just wanted her dad back. She didn't care what the lawyers wanted from her. She didn't care about anything. After the second day of meetings, she refused to speak with them.

Again, it was Mrs. Freight who had to take charge. She allowed Rose to wallow in her dormitory for one week, then announced that she must iron her clothes, fix her hair, and begin attending classes again. Out of the goodness of her heart, she would allow Rose to finish out the term even though her tuition wasn't fully paid, but on the condition that she display the qualities of a model student, relinquish her spacious private room for a spare spot next to the school's kitchens, and pay her way by cleaning floors and serving dinners to the other girls.

Rose had attended Dice Willows for more than a decade. It wasn't her demotion that bothered her—it was the thought of being forced to leave. "But then what is to become of me?"

"I've contacted your father's closest business associates, as your family doesn't seem too receptive to taking you in. One has agreed to answer for you."

"Who?" Rose asked, wildly racking her brain to think of who, of her father's old and stodgy acquaintances, could possibly want anything to do with her.

"His name is Caledon Hockley."


	2. Departure

The rest of the term was bitterly cold, and it rained nearly every day from October through December. Rose's new quarters were cramped and poorly insulated. Everything seemed dingy, faded, ugly. Her powdered and lovely world was replaced by this nightmare.

Everything appeared muggy and cramped, the school closing in on her. She shunned weekend excursions with the other girls—she no longer had spare cash to blow on new dresses and fancy lunches. Their attitude toward her turned from pity to confusion. Rose, always a social butterfly, now rarely talked or made eye-contact. She didn't participate in class. She dutifully ladled out food to the other girls but took her own meals in her room, chewing, chewing, deliberately and angrily and staring off into space, as if angry that she was still alive and had to bear these trivial physical burdens while her father was gone, bodiless, in heaven.

She spent her spare time reading and studying. She passed her classes with perfect grades. She practiced ballet in the gymnasium on weekends, her favorite hobby and passion from the age of three.

By the time midterms passed and she handed in final papers, Rose had all but completely walled herself away from the world she'd previously thrived in. She was ready to leave Dice Willows.

She assumed that Mr. Hockley himself would come to get her.

On the last day of term, while the other girls were preparing for ski trips, shopping sprees, and cozy winter nights with their families, Rose was alone on the bed in her room, crying into the ragged quilt that never quite kept her warm at night.

There was a knock. "Rose? Rose, are you in there? Mrs. Freight wants you in her office." It was Bernice, someone she once called her best friend. In another, much happier world, Rose and Bernice had splashed in the waves of the ocean together, they'd gone to birthday parties, giggled over boys, dressed up, stayed up late, and tasted their first sips of beer together. Now, Bernice sounds like a stranger to Rose.

Rose cleaned herself up, brushed out her long hair, and put on a freshly starched white blouse and the dove gray wool skirt of the school uniform. This was her last day at Dice Willows, and she was dressed almost exactly the same as she'd entered it, a sticky-handed six-year-old with little curls and a yellow bow in her hair. She loved the school. Her memories here defined her entire life, up until then. It pained her to leave it feeling so desolate and hollow. This was too terrible to be real life.

"Take a seat," Mrs. Freight instructed when Rose walked in, motioning toward the empty chair in her large, dim office.

Rose instantly noticed an older man in the other seat across from Mrs. Freight. He was small—probably as tall as Rose—and slight, dressed in a black suit, with thin gray hair, light gray eyes, and deep wrinkles. She didn't recognize him, yet felt an instant childish gratitude. She assumed this was Mr. Hockley, come to deliver her from orphanage.

"This is Mr. Sickmiss," Mrs. Freight announced. "He will be escorting you to your new residency."

"Yes, ma'am," she says. Both Mrs. Freight and Mr. Sickmiss are momentarily taken aback by the sweet childish ring in her soft voice, like they were expecting something different, stronger, more defiant.

"You will take only the absolute necessities with you—Mr. Hockley is doing you a great service by taking you in as it is, and he doesn't need further clutter in his home."

Rose nods in complacency, "Yes, I understand, ma'am."

"You may say good-bye to the other girls, but your car is waiting. Be quick about it." Then, her voice momentarily softening, Mrs. Freight adds, "It has been a pleasure watching you blossom into a woman."

The good-byes are definitely not lingering. Rose gives away most of her clothes and the old useless trinkets that remind her of painfully fond memories. Bernice is left clutching a pair of 10-carat emerald earrings custom-designed and purchased from a swanky Parisian jeweler.

"Rose, this is too much!" she exclaims. Rose shakes her head. "It's not something I mind giving. Please take it from me."

She keeps her photographs and journals. She keeps the books, of course. And she keeps the porcelain music box, the ballerina inside just as delicate and beautiful as the day she was bought.


	3. Gardenhead

Even though it's only early afternoon, Rose feels tired and groggy throughout the long car-ride. The seats are sumptuous black leather, and she wants to stretch out and sleep, sleep, sleep, so that she can wake up in a new world where her father is alive and the sun shines brightly again.

The hours stretch on—four, then five. Where is Mr. Sickmiss taking her, anyway?

Finally, Rose can take the dry, dead scenery no longer. She leans her hair back and dozes off.

A rough, firm hand shakes her shoulder until she wakes up. "Come on, come on." It's not Mr. Sickmiss, that's for sure. She can already see him and another man carrying her luggage into the large manor the car is parked in front of. No, a youngish woman, with olive-toned skin and shimmering black hair is shaking her awake. "Come on or you'll barely have time to get ready for him." She practically pulls Rose from the car.

"What? Who? Who are you?" Rose trips on the pathway and over her own tongue, struggling to orient herself.

"Camille. I manage the staff and look over the house. Come on, you can't be slow around here."

Rose looks around, but the whole house is shrouded by the nighttime. There are no moon or stars.

"Welcome to Gardenhead," Camille tells her. "Clean yourself up, and then you'll be fed."

After the stark living conditions after her father's death, her rooms at Gardenhead are a luxurious delight. The four-poster bed is large and soft, piled with blankets and pillows she wants to bury herself in. There's a huge walk-in closet that makes her wish she hadn't been so flippant about giving her things away, although she sees that gauzy dresses are warm coats are already hanging, with all manners of pants and skirts and boots and heels neatly folded or stacked in the shelves along the back wall. The bathroom is her biggest delight. Even when she was in her previous private dormitory, Rose had to share the bathroom with the entire floor, peeing and showering in stalls beside the other girls for practically her whole life. And even at home, she never had anything this glamorous—not these golden-tinted lights, or the sparkling chandelier, or the huge walk-in tub and glass-walled shower that overlooked the gardens.

Camille barely gives her any time to enjoy any of it, however. When she walks in and finds Rose admiring the lights and mirrors in the bathroom, Camille rolls her eyes, grabs her by the arm, and starts unbuttoning the blouse, "Come on, there's no time for this. Get in the bath _now_."

Rose pulls away. "I'm not a child. I can undress myself."

"Then do it," Camille commands, moving to tub and turning the gold handles so it begins to fill with steaming water. "He likes the smell of jasmine best, but anything floral should be okay. Here," she reads the bottle on a glass jar of bath salts, "lily and vanilla. Perfect," she announces, dumping half the container in Rose's bath water. "I wouldn't do rose. Too . . . literal." Camille keeps talking, and Rose isn't sure if she's expected to completely undress in front of her. Seeing her hesitation, Camille tells her, "Hurry _up_. I've seen it all before. What are you, twelve? You don't have much to see anyway."

"I'm nearly seventeen."

"Just keep repeating that. Add a year for good measure, maybe, depending on whose company you're in. Anyway, get clean. Make sure your hair is completely dry. Do your makeup. Put on perfume-remember _florals_. Put on something nice." Camille walks over to the closet. "I went shopping for you but wasn't sure of your size. They just told me you were thin, so, I don't know, try this," she holds up a lacy black dress, "or this," this time she displays red silk. "Whatever suits your style. Come down to the dining room when you're ready, and," Camille lingers for just a few extra seconds before leaving Rose to prepare herself, "hurry _up_."

Despite Camille's advice, Rose can't help but linger in the bath. The water's just too warm. It feels too good to finally be clean and warm and comfortable. She gives herself the luxury of merely lying in the foaming bath and breathing slowly, finally releasing some of the pain and discomfort burning up inside.

Eventually she hastily hurries out, blow dries her hair, puts on mascara, eye liner, lipstick, and a bit of glimmering powder on the high planes of her cheeks, the inner corner of her eyes, and then dusts it along her neck and cleavage. She smiles into the mirror for the first time in what feels like years, following Camille's advice and spritzing herself with a light lily perfume, a bitter peach and soft vanilla lingering in the background.

She lingers again, this time searching her face in the mirror. She looks thinner, older than she thought. Her hair is shinier and longer than the last time she paid any attention to it. Her eyes look greener, her skin paler. Is that even her? Her father always told her that she looks just like her mother—the same silky red hair, high cheekbones, big eyes, and just a little glint of something more . . . some unnamable, teasing, laughing sparkle. Tonight, on her own, cleaned up and primped, she feels more a woman than ever. She drops the towel and flicks through the dresses in the closet. Camille said to put on whatever suits her style. "Perfect," Rose murmurs to herself, picking her selection for the evening.


	4. Sir

The dining room is stuffier but more beautiful than Rose expected. The entire west wall is made of glass, so that Rose feels as she can walk off the edge of the black marble tiles and into the starless night sky.

The long table is set and immaculately prepared for supper—white tablecloth, gold place settings, flickering candles, the works. But it's just Camille in the room, slowly chewing a piece of half-bloody steak and looking up briefly when Rose comes in. She smirks and raises an eyebrow, "Lovely outfit."

"Thank you," Rose smiles despite Camille's sarcastic tone. She picked out a hot pink micro-minidress with a twirling skirt and sequined, sleeveless corseted top. It reminds her of the hyper-girly dance outfits she wore to recitals as a child. Given how seriously Camille took this whole affair, Rose couldn't help but pick out the most ridiculous outfit from the closet.

"Sit down. Eat," Camille tells her.

"Is Mr. Hockley going to eat with us?" Rose asks, taking her seat across from Camille. They both sit beside the head of the table—Camille to the right of the empty chair and Rose to the left, the gap between them emphasizing the loneliness and emptiness in the room.

Camille rolls her eyes, "He's working, unfortunately."

Rose sighs. She's used to being neglected for more pressing matters.

"Hurry though—he wants to see you in his office."

This time Rose can't help but roll her eyes. Won't this woman let her slow down and enjoy _anything_? Camille reaches across the table and slaps Rose's wrist, so quickly Rose doesn't even have time to pull her arm away. "None of that attitude," Camille chastises. "Eat."

Rose picks at the food on her plate, too annoyed and uncomfortable with the new setting to feel hungry. Her sequined dress calms her down a little—she finds her own joke too funny to feel uncomfortable in the revealing thing, but really she wishes she could pull on an old t-shirt and curl up in the comfortable bed with one of her books.

"This isn't a game. You're expected to eat everything put in front of you," Camille tells her when she notices that Rose is spacing out more than eating.

"I don't like meat," Rose answers. "Or wine," she adds, glancing at the glasses—one red, one sparkling champagne—beside her plate.

"The wine is your choice. The food isn't." Camille finishes her dinner quickly, sits back, and watches until Rose eats her own plate clean.

"Dessert?" Camille asks when she's through.

"No thank you. I'm full," Rose tells her, inflectionless. She can play this game. She will find her limits, she will discover how much autonomy and control she's allowed to have, and then she will slowly, surely strive for just a little more, more, more, until she has her way.

"That's fine. Go see your new master. He's been waiting."

Rose isn't easily intimidated (being called "Princess" one's whole life does that to a girl), but something about this impending meeting makes her heart suddenly pound.

"Actually . . ." Camille reconsiders, "come." She stands and grips Rose by the arm, quickly leading her back to her bathroom upstairs. Camille pushes her against the counter, takes a tissue, and wipes the red lipstick from Rose's lips. "Maybe it's a good thing he didn't see you. You're stunningly gorgeous—that's fine, but you still need to know how to present yourself." Camille says this matter-of-factly, as if these details are long established and understood. "This," she holds up the crumpled tissue with soiled remnants of crimson lipstick, "makes you look like a whore." She rifles through a drawer filled with glosses, shadows, powders, and oils and picks out a black tube of pink lipstick. She firmly cups Rose's chin with her left hand to hold her head still, then dabs on the smooth lipstick. "Soft," she tells her. "Pretty. He'll love you."

Camille walks Rose to the fourth floor and leads her to the closed study doors, big, ornate double doors made from a sturdy dark wood and carved with figures Rose would have to run her hand across and touch in order to make out in the dim light of the corridor.

"He might still be working, but he's been expecting you. Go in."

Rose shoots her a scared, nervous glance, and this time Camille rolls her eyes. "Do you want _me_ to knock and lead you in? I thought you said you weren't a child."

Rose's hands are shaking. She steps away from the door and leans against the wall, breathing deeply and looking up at the ceiling for some sort of salvation or validation. "I don't want to do this," she whispers.

"You have to."

"Please, no. I just want to go home. I want everything to be okay and normal again. I want to go home," she repeats.

Camille's tone softens. She reaches toward Rose but doesn't touch her, "Sweetheart, this is your home."

Rose shakes her head and opens her mouth to protest, but before she can speak the door of the study opens, and a tall, dark-haired man steps out. He's turned so that Rose only sees the back of his head and neck, and just a glimpse of his profile. Camille immediately turns to him. He leans forward and says something to her in a low tone, she nods, then leaves, walking past Rose and down the steps without glancing her way.

The man turns to Rose and smiles. Her lips part. She expected someone older, fatherly. But this man is handsome. Youngish—maybe thirty. Definitely not her father's age. Still, there's something comforting about his smile, like he can make all her anxieties and problems disappear.

"You must be Rose."

She struggles to find her voice. "Yes."

"Come in." He holds the door for her, and she takes a seat across from his, at a massive desk. Everything—the vaulted ceilings, arched windows that reach from the ceiling to the floor, desks, chairs, and, she quickly notices, shelves and shelves of books, so many and reaching so high that some can only be accessed by a moving ladder—make Rose feel as if she's stepped into a giant's world.

"I hope Camille didn't scare you off too quickly."

Rose laughs but can't think of anything to answer.

"She cleaned you up and fed you?" Rose detects a hint of something mocking in his tone.

"Yes," she answers simply. "Thank you," she hastily adds.

Cal raises an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For . . . dinner. And for taking me in at all," she fiddles with the fabric of her skirt, hitched up even higher now that she's sitting. Cal takes his eyes off her face for the first time. "Nice dress." This time the sarcasm in his voice is obvious.

"Isn't it great? I couldn't help myself."

"I think you might be the only woman walking the earth who can pull it off. Stand up. Let me appreciate the full affect."

Rose stands, looking down at the dress rather than meeting Cal's eyes.

"Turn," he tells her. She obeys, spinning slowly in her patent nude heels, and, when she faces forward again, she finds his eyes once again resting on her face. "Beautiful. Sit." Rose sits, crosses her legs, and licks her lips, tasting the candy sweetness of the lipstick Camille used.

Cal leans forward and shoves his business papers aside. "You can imagine how surprised I was when Mrs. Freight called me up," he tells her.

"Yes," she nods.

"I was very sorry to hear about . . . your loss."

"Thank you."

"Your father was—_is_—near and dear to my heart. He put his faith in me when I was a stupid, struggling young entrepreneur, straight out of business school, with nothing but a few internships under my belt. He was the only one who would listen to my ideas. I remember. He was the only person who had any faith in me." Cal laughs, "Even my own parents wanted me to quit and wanted me to become a doctor instead. A _doctor_. Can you imagine? But I knew even then—thank God—that med school wasn't for me. I wanted to start a company. A successful company. Useful. Brilliant. Your dad was my first investor. It wasn't just the money—I mean, after his influence, the contacts and investments just sort of snow-balled—but, really, I couldn't have done it without knowing that there was _someone _out there who believed my ideas were worth something."

"Forgive me, but what kind of business are you in?"

"Steel. Manufacturing. I developed a cheaper, faster method of production, and the whole thing took off thanks to your dad. I never had my opportunity to properly repay him."

Rose nods. "He was a good business man. If he believed in an idea, it meant it was a good one. He always had a knack for these sorts of things." Rose sighs. "Well . . . I guess near the end, his choices weren't the best."

"Rose, your father did his job well. He was too trusting. He had too much faith in people's goodness and decency. He was lied to. Cheated. Never think that your father's knack faltered—only his appraisal of human nature."

Rose shakes her head, "Thank you, but I don't want to talk about this. I'm sorry."

Cal nods, "I understand. But, what I wanted to tell you is that I owe a debt to your father. That's where you come in. I couldn't say no to Mrs. Freight. I couldn't deny your father's child—not after everything he's done for me. All this," Cal motions to his study but indicates the house and grounds at large, "is thanks to him. I can't lock you out of a property I only have because of your dad."

"Thank you very much, for your kindness and your generosity."

"But," Cal pauses, "my debt was to your father," he continues. "Not you, dear. I do expect something in return."

He waits for her to nod before he continues. "I expect your absolute obedience. What I say, goes. In my absence, what Camille says goes. You will listen. You will learn. My understanding is that you're on Winter Break. Immediately following the holidays, you will have private instructors in math, art, English, foreign language, and dance. I expect you to do well. I expect you to study hard."

She nods.

He points and shoots her a reprimanding look. "And that. You will not speak or act flippantly or disrespectfully. You are to say, 'yes, Sir.'"

"Yes, Sir."

"You are only to speak when spoken to."

"Yes, Sir."

"And you are to follow my instructions and will absolutely." Butterflies dance in Rose's stomach, flit up and down her arms and legs, then flutter in her heart so that her cheeks flush pink. "Yes, Sir," she answers.


	5. An Invitation

The week passes quick and painless. Cal leaves for business the following morning, and Camille and Rose have the house to themselves. The maintenance staff—two maids, two valets, a chef, and several gardeners, as far as Rose has been able to count—come and go. They pay little attention to her, and she's been instructed not to speak to them but instead to go to Camille if she needs something.

Rose is free to explore the house and does so with enthusiasm, eager to map out her new residence and rob it of its mystery and intimidation. She loves the cool wine cellar below, as well as the cozy window seats in the crooks and turns of the back staircase, and, of course, she loves Cal's study, with its towering walls of books. The only room that's off-limits is Cal's bedroom. "You have to be invited inside," Camille tells her.

Camille seems friendlier as the days pass. She's busy—working at the desk in Cal's study, meeting with clients while Cal's away, as well as attending to the hundreds of details around the house, from drawing out meal plans and shopping lists with the chefs to teaching a new maid how to properly make a bed. She finds time to talk to Rose in her spare time, taking her out shopping and paying for everything using a sleek black card with Cal's name. They go out for brunch, for jogs, even to drive up and look out at the views.

Rose spends the evenings dancing. Camille showed her the gigantic circular ballroom, with three crystal chandeliers, shiny marble floors, and no less than five staircases, and it was love at first sight. All alone, with only her mirrored reflection for company, Rose practices to the tunes playing inside her head.

* * *

Camille can't stop smiling on Friday. She doesn't even notice or reprimand Rose for leaving half her breakfast on her plate.

"Why are you so happy?" Rose finally asks. Despite a cool breeze, the sun is out, and they walk through the winding pathways in the gardens, looking for signs of life among the bare trees and frozen flowers.

"He's coming back today," she murmurs, eyes glistening.

* * *

Rose doesn't have the opportunity to see him. He comes back tired and jet-lagged, rests in his room, then takes Camille out for wine and dinner downtown.

"How do I look?" Camille comes into Rose's room and asks her, giving her a 360 look at the clinging black satin dress.

"Goddess supreme."

Camille flashes her a smile. "You're great. And the hair?" she puts a hand to the sleek updo, a string of pearls cascading through the twisting chignon.

"Like a movie star."

* * *

Rose is already in bed, nearly asleep, when Camille comes into her room again. Her skin is warm, her hair falling a little in back, and she smells like expensive red wine and Cal's cologne. Her heels are in her hands, so that the black dress pools and trails behind her as she comes to the bed and shakes Rose completely awake.

"What's wrong? Did you have a good night?"

Camille turns on the bedside table lamp, bathing them both in a golden light, and Rose sits up. Camille sits down beside her. "Yeah, it was wonderful. He outdid himself."

"Then what's wrong?" Rose scoots closer so that their shoulders touch.

Camille raises her hands and then drops them back down in her lap in defeat, "I'm not with him. Rose," she turns to face the girl, "he wants you to come to his bedroom tonight."

Rose looks away. "What?"

"Don't act the innocent little princess."

"I'm only sixteen."

"That's plenty. By your age . . . well, let's not talk about it. Rose, you have to go."

"I'm tired. I'm sleeping."

"Rose, it's not a question. If you want to stay in this house, you have to do as you're told."

"I . . ." she falters. "I don't know what to do with him."

"I know." She chuckles, but the laugh is tinged with bitterness. "Men don't realize . . . they see a pretty girl and just assume she's been round the block, at least a few times. I told him. I told him you're an absolute child about some things."

Rose wants to protest but lets Camille go on, knowing she's hurt that Cal doesn't want her that night. "Just do what he says, Rose. I assume he'll be gentle, but . . . Cal likes intimacy, and it's been a week. I don't know what he's going to be like. I wanted to warm him up for you. Make him less needy, but," she shrugs, "he didn't want me." She glances over at Rose. "Okay, let's get this over with." Her tone becomes matter-of-fact, like a teacher correcting a homework assignment with grammar errors. "Lose the pajamas," she says, indicating the t-shirt and cotton shorts Rose sleeps in. "Put on a nightie or something. Heels," she waves the stilettos in her hands, "are your choice. He never notices. You can go in barefoot if you want. You need a little makeup, but nothing that'll rub off and stain the sheets."

Rose finds this last bit hysterical. "I'm not allowed to get the sheets dirty? Perfect."

Camille ignores her comments, instead dragging her into the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face, and running a comb through her long, soft hair. "God, he always wanted me to grow my hair out, nice and long like this," Camille muses, touching her own shoulder-length hair.

"Why don't you?"

"Too thick. It wouldn't look good." She breathes deeply. "Rose, you have to know yourself. You have to know what will work and what won't. You need to know who you are—what you need, what you want, what you dream of, and what you deserve."

"Camille, how long have you known Cal?"

"Almost five years now. He was my boss before he invited me to stay with him."

"But what _are_ you? Are you dating? Lovers? What?"

She shrugs. "I'm whoever he wants me to be."


	6. Control

_Note: This chapter contains graphic scenes and depictions of sexual relations between a minor and an adult. If you are uncomfortable or offended by these sorts of depictions, please do not read this chapter. If you are fine with regarding this as a fictional literary work, then . . . enjoy! _

* * *

This time Rose goes to the fourth floor alone. She knocks on the bedroom door herself.

"Come in," Cal's voice calls out. The bedroom is large, well-furnished, positively _sumptuous_. Everything seems to have and be in its proper place, rich red curtains falling just right, soft black bedspread, suitcases stacked neatly along one wall. Rose wants to step out_. But _I_ don't belong here_, she thinks.

"Get in the bed," Cal tells her from behind the closed bathroom door. She can hear water running. Her stomach ties itself in knots, her heart pounds, her cheeks flush. She steps inside and shuts the door behind her.

* * *

She's still standing, frozen, by the door when Cal walks out. He takes her in. She looks lovely—hair falling gracefully, lips pouting because she's pissed off to be there, eyes nervous but hungry. She picked a simple black nightie, both because it reminds her of the plain black leotards she wore to dance practice and because it's similar to the dress Camille wore that evening. She wants Cal to look at her and see Camille instead. She wants Camille to take her place.

But does she really? Cal looks more raw, more human, than the first night she met him. There's a bit of stubble on his chin and jawline, and his hair is unkempt, like he ran his hand through it rather than comb it. He's still wearing most of his dinner attire—tailored black slacks and a white button-down so clean and fresh it's nearly glowing. His shoes, tie, and jacket are gone though, and he's obviously unbuttoned and tugged at his shirt collar to loosen it. Even fully clothed, there's something raw and naked about the way Cal is standing there and watching her. She wants him to touch her.

"Get in the bed," he repeats. His soft, firm tone makes Rose think of him holding her. Feeling his skin on her skin. Feeling him protecting her from the whole wide world.

She nods and walks toward the bed.

"Rose. We talked about this . . ."

"Yes, Sir," she chokes out, correcting herself and walking to the bed. Stalling and uncertain of herself, she perches on the edge of the tall, hard bed, her legs stretched out straight in front of her with the knees locked. She avoids Cal's gaze completely, instead looking down at her bare feet, toenails painted red. She feels silly wearing heels around the house, as if she's playing dress-up, rather than living real life.

Cal chuckles and walks toward her. "_In_ the bed, dear," he tells her, and, in one strong swoop, he lifts her off the bed with one arm, pulls back the covers with the other, and deposits her on the white satin sheets, her back bouncing against the pillows.

Rose brings her knees up, and Cal sits down beside her, leaning back against the pillows and closing his eyes.

"Tired, sweetheart?" he asks her.

"Not anymore. Nervous."

He smiles but doesn't open his eyes, "Sir," he reminds her.

"Sorry. Sir."

"Is it really that hard to remember?"

"I'm sorry, Sir."

He opens his eyes and turns his head to look at her. She's sitting up more than he is, so he tilts his head slightly up to look at her, taking in the slender neck, full lips, big eyes, and . . . something more. Something that makes her just a little prettier, a little bit more special than the other women he's known. "You're so open," he murmurs. "You really don't play games. You don't act coy, or play pretend. You really are," he takes her right hand in both of his, running his fingers across the soft skin of her wrist and the underside of her forearm, feeling how light and delicate her body is as well as her pounding pulse, "nervous out of your mind right now." He drops her arm and pushes himself up to sit up straight against the pillows. He puts his left arm around her shoulders but doesn't pull her any closer.

She breathes in his scent and relaxes against the warm touch of his arm. "Am I crazy? You seem familiar. Have I met you earlier, long ago?"

He nods. "The Gold and Silver Ball. In Naples. Three years ago, almost."

Her eyes light up. "I remember that! My dad got an achievement award that night."

"Right."

She laughs. "He didn't even want to go. I insisted, because I had a sparkling silver dress and wanted to dress up and wear it."

"He didn't want to go?"

Rose shakes her head, "There were two-hundred guests, and he hated giving speeches to groups of fewer than ten or more than a hundred. He said it all has to do with group mentality—too few people, and you have to sway each one individually, rather than get a few to agree and watch the others give in to group pressure. But have too many people, and all hell breaks loose—cliques and distractions and too many different reactions. He knew how to work a crowd, but only a very particular crowd."

"Well, I was there, but I don't even remember his speech. I remember seeing you. I was three tables over. I knew he had a daughter, but for some reason I thought you were much younger. He must've had a baby picture on his desk or something, and it never occurred to me that over the years the baby would've grown up. I . . . was surprised."

"Was Camille with you that night?"

"Camille? No. I don't take her when I travel. I don't even think she likes planes."

Rose shudders against him. "I don't think I do either, anymore."

He immediately recognizes his mistake, remembering the plane crash, the bodies . . . he opens his mouth but can't find the proper words. They sit in silence. The room seems to dim, but maybe that's just Rose's vision.

He squeezes her shoulder, now pulling her close so that she lays against him. "What've you done?" The tone is strict but genuinely curious.

"Nothing." She pauses, then remembers to add, "Sir."

"Kissing?"

"Yes, Sir, of course." For God's sake, she's sixteen, not a nun.

"Real kissing—French," he clarifies.

"Yes, Sir."

"And has a man ever touched you, under your clothes?"

His delicate euphemisms strike her as funny under the circumstances. "No, Sir, never under. Camille's felt me up more in the last week than any guy has ever done."

Cal turns to her and raises an eyebrow, not sure if she's joking. "Camille's felt you up?"

"She's too impatient. I can never dress myself quickly enough for whatever we're doing. Going clothes shopping with Camille is the most physically invasive thing that's ever happened to my body."

Cal brushes his fingertips up and down her shoulder, across her neck, down the middle of the nightie. "Fuck," he murmurs, not to her, but to himself. She's too new, too lovely. But . . . "Come," he says, placing his right hand over her throat and wrapping his left arm around her waist, pulling him into his lap, then spreading his legs so that she drops down in front of him, with her back against his chest and his legs on either side of her. He feels her pulse race and waits for it to slow before removing his hand from her throat.

"Scoot forward," he directs, and she does. He massages the back of her neck, twisting her hair around his hand and placing it across her right shoulder. "I want you to relax," he tells her, massaging the knots and tension from her back, her shoulders, and down those long, soft arms. He runs his fingers through her hair, massages her scalp, and she feels a tingling in the small of her back. "Mmm," she murmurs, finally forgetting herself.

"Ah. That's it," he realizes, rubbing the back of her head, just above the neck, her temples, and then placing his thumbs at the back of her head and making small circles, pushing her head down so that her hair falls forward. "Your hair is too heavy for you."

"Yes, Sir, sometimes I get headaches," she admits.

"You know, sometimes I get headaches too." He runs his fingers one last time from her scalp to the ends of her silk strands, then, before Rose can even realize what he's doing, he pushes the straps of the nightie off her shoulders and lets the top drop to her waist. Acting on reflex, Rose's brings her hands up to cover herself.

"No, pet. Arms down." Cal resists the urge to physically bring her arms to her lap himself. He wants her to obey him of her own free will, and, after taking a deep breath, she does.

The bedroom is warm, yet Rose is shivering. He fondles her gently, thoroughly, from one breast to the other. Then, when he's had his fun, he draws his hand up her throat, tilts her head up just as he brings his own head down, and meets her in a deep, penetrating kiss. She gasps with his tongue in her mouth. She opens herself to him completely, reaching up to wrap her right arm around his neck and pull him even closer. "Good girl," he murmurs, pulling away just slightly, so that she can feel his warm breath on her lips. He gives her a quick kiss on the lips, then travels downward, tickling her throat with soft kisses, and then her collarbone. Rose braces the palms of her hands against the mattress and attempts to push herself upward, so that Cal can kiss lower. Instead, he brings his head up and takes the opportunity to grasp her under the arms and push her down on the bed. He slides out from under her and turns over so that he faces her, bracing himself on his arms and looking down from above her. In this position, Rose feels chastened, more exposed now that Cal can take a good look at her from the front. And he does. She can feel his eyes traveling across her. He meets her eyes again and smiles. "Nice," he says simply. Rose wants to laugh, oddly grateful for his validation.

Cal kisses her mouth again, soft at first, but deeper and harder as his hands travel from her shoulders and down her sides. She giggles and bucks against him as the nightie gets pushed lower and he runs a hand over her smooth, flat stomach. "That tickles!" she protests, unable to help herself.

"God, finally," he says, running his hand over her stomach again, in the curve just above her pelvic bone. She laughs and bucks again, trying to control herself but failing. "I never thought you'd relax. You're ticklish?"

"Very. Never grew out of it like everyone else."

Cal uses this information to his advantage. His mouth on hers, he tickles her again, Rose bucks, and he uses the opportunity to slide the nightie from her hips, down her legs, and completely off. Kissing her, feeling her heavy breathing, hoping, please, please God don't let her freak out or have a heart attack or scream, he pushes her thighs apart. Nothing. Rose is compliant, eager. Her body is flexible. He brings her knees to either side of her head easily. "Hold," he tells her, and Rose grips her legs by the back of the knees and holds them in place. He wraps his left arm around her waist, tilting her pelvis toward him, and runs his right hand down her stomach (a giggle, a slight movement) and then between her legs.

"Panties? Who okayed this? Camille dressed you in panties? Do I need to enforce an all-naked policy in this bedroom?" He's teasing and Rose wants to laugh, but she also feels queasy and nervous again. He wraps one hand around her throat and places the flat of his palm against her. The panties are thin—just a bit of black lace between her and his hand. She wants more air. "Well, well," Cal muses. He's almost taken aback by how hot and wet she is. He rubs a finger up and down, the friction making Rose moan beneath him. She throws her head back and bucks in pleasure this time, wanting more pressure. But he continues to lightly run his finger over the lace, then higher, finding her swollen clit. She gasps. Her eyes widen. He rubs her slowly, lightly, gently. She moans and tries to say something, but the hand at her throat tightens. He continues to stroke her, feeling her wetness, pushing her closer and closer to the brink.

"Please," she gasps out, her voice finally audible.

"Please what?" he asks.

"Please let me come," she answers in a small voice.

He squeezes her throat and shoots her a stern look, then relaxes his hold so she can speak.

"Please, Sir, let me come," she's shaking and pleading, but her eyes never waiver from his. He takes his hand away and slaps her lightly between the thighs. She whimpers.

He brings his hand back, yanking the panties down so that he can touch her directly. He pushes a finger in as deep as he can go, but she flinches almost immediately. "Hurts?" She nods. He tries again, making sure his finger is completely covered in her own wetness beforehand. The flinch is less perceptible, but he can read the pain on her face.

"Haven't you ever touched yourself?" he asks.

"Not internally, Sir."

"Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck," he mutters to himself. She's impossibly wet, yet impossibly tight. "I should've had Camille make sure you were ready."

He pushes her legs even further apart, steadying her with a hand on her hip, then pulls a pillow beneath her so he has a better angle. He finally manages to push a finger in all the way, stroking it back and forth, back and forth. She lets out a deep moan. Two fingers. He can hear the wetness, feel it running down his arm. He moves to her clit, strokes, back down, inside, back and forth, back and forth, then back to the clit. Three fingers. A brief glimpse of Rose's pain, then a moan of pleasure as he hits just the right spot.

"Yes, please, Sir, yes, yes, please . . ."

He feels a tension building inside her. He feels her mounting higher, higher toward a release.

"Please," she begs, tears coming to her eyes.

He stops. He pulls her panties completely off.

"Let go," he tells her, taking her hands from the back of her knees. "Hold on to the headboard." She grips the bars of the headboard, arching her back and stretching her body out in front of him. "Perfect." The softness and beauty is almost too much. He doesn't know how much more he can take of this. Rose is oblivious to his own needs, too innocent and honed in on her own to even realize that she's supposed to take his clothes off and touch him. This is fine. Plenty of time for her to learn.

He brings his knees down beside her hips and undresses himself, slowly, smoothly, almost mechanically, but aware that her eyes are on him. Cal doesn't disappoint her. He's been an athlete his whole life, and his body is solid, strong, slim but muscular.

Her lips part. "I liked your shirt, Sir," she says, as a compliment, too embarrassed to compliment his body, even though she's obviously impressed.

"Were you spoken to, pet?"

"No, Sir."

"Thighs apart." Rose obeys, and he slaps her between the legs with the back of his hand. "Remember your place. Now," he licks his lips, "wrap your legs around me."

Worry and fear immediately streak across her eyes, but, once again, Rose obeys. She feels his erection brush against her. She's scared of the pain, and yet . . . very curious.

Cal reaches down, and, rather than thrust forward, rubs himself across her, back to front, again and again, until she's once again dripping down her own thighs this time and his erection is slick from both their juices.

"Do you feel that?" he whispers in her ear, leaning close to kiss her neck.

"Yes, Sir."

"Can you take that?"

She knows the answer he wants to hear. "Yes, Sir."

He puts his arms around her and thrusts forward, bringing her hips toward him as well. He feels her tighten and her entire body stiffen. She screams out, and he claps a hand over her mouth. He's barely a few inches in. "You told me you could take it." He pulls out, this motion making her whimper even more.

"I'm sorry, Sir." Cal takes a long, serious look at her, eyes glistening with tears, her whole face marked with a deep and sorrowful disappointment. He realizes that she really is sorry. All her other niceties and "Sirs" had a tinge of mockery, like she was merely humoring him. But this time . . . she really is sorry. "Fuck," he mutters to himself again. He could play with her, get her to calm down and relax and open up—physically, that is—but suddenly _Cal _isn't in the mood for this. "You're not ready for this," he tells her, rolling off of her and onto his side beside her. "You have no idea . . ." he looks down at the soft, young, compliant body. A perfect body, really. Everything he's ever wanted. Rose is straight out of a man's fantasies, like she's not even real. Rose waits for him to finish, knowing she isn't allowed to interrupt. "How badly I want to fuck your brains out right now," he finishes. He slaps the inside of her thigh, lightly, playfully this time. "Come here," he says, tilting her chin upward for a long, sensuous kiss, during which he releases her head and fondles her. She laughs.

"Bit more intimate than Camille?" he asks.

"Yes, Sir."

"Thighs apart," he tells her, and this time she understands that when he says this, he means knees bent and legs spread very wide. What Cal wants, more than anything on earth at that moment, is to climb back on top of her and thrust himself in all the way, to the hilt. He wants to feel himself deep, deep inside her. But he controls himself. It is—it's _always_ been—about control.

He places a finger inside. Rose immediately flinches. "Sore?" he asks.

"Yes, Sir."

He nods. He brings his fingers to his lips and tastes her. "Mmm. You know, you're really lucky I took you in. You would've been out in the streets otherwise." At first she thinks he's trying to coerce her into trying again, but Cal continues, "And then you would have resorted to whoring yourself out for money, but," he glances down at her open legs, "you're a really fucking bad whore."

Rose can't help herself. She breaks out into a laugh, and, while she's relaxed and amused and at ease, Cal quickly kisses his way down from her belly button to between her legs, and flicks her clit with his tongue.

"Ohhh," is Rose's reply, laughter leaving as she arches toward him once again.

Cal licks and teases, enjoying the sweet, heady taste of her, lost in the scent of her musk and perfume. He glances up and sees her with her eyes closed, transported to another world. He keeps his tongue flickering on her clit and, tentatively, brings two fingers inside her. She opens up beautifully, his fingers sliding in easily, without any resistance. He brings her to the brink, and, once again, hears that tell-tale whisper, "Please, Sir, let me come."

With one last lick, he brings his face away, looming up to kiss her, letting her taste herself on his tongue. The motion of his hand continues, however, faster, deeper. He puts his left hand over her throat, feeling just how fragile she is in his hands, brings his lips to her ear, and whispers, "Yes, sweetheart, come for me."


	7. Privacy

_Note: I received a (funny and insightful—thank you!) review asking what time period this story takes place in. I chose to deliberately keep the time and setting ambiguous for several reasons:_

_1. I'm going to make my first reason a very honest one: it makes the story easier to write! I'm writing chapter-by-chapter, and I didn't have a clear direction when I first started writing (nor do I know exactly where the story goes from here—only a vague notion of where I want to take it). By leaving as few details filled in as possible, I have more potential to lead the story where I want it to as it progresses._

_2. Rose struggles to latch onto the corporeal reality of her current life, and having an ambiguous timeframe and setting mirrors this dreamlike sense of dis-reality for the reader. In a sense, the story doesn't even take place in any historical or realistic modern day setting, but rather in a private dream world where possibilities and societal norms are tweaked (such as in the first half of Lolita, where luck magically pours down on Humburt). _

_3. Time isn't supposed to be static or pinned down in the story. Like in Hamlet's Denmark, it's a bit out of whack—ages (and all their moral implications in various circumstances) and the passage of years in particular shift more than they should, such as Rose saying she's almost 17 when she wants to assert herself as older, yet reminding Camille that she's only 16 when she learns Cal wants her in his bedroom. _

_4. I wanted to play with the moral question of Rose and Cal's relationship and how it's affected by the chronological setting. Are Cal's actions any more justifiable in 1912 than in 2013? Are Rose's or Camille's? In a sense, numbers are very important to the story. Would things be any different if Rose were 18? 21? If she were just a little younger when Cal first saw her? Along the same vein, numbers matter very little. Regardless of the year, male-female dynamics, love, lust, and the need for control remain universal. Time and years are both very important and almost inconsequential to the story._

_That's my attempt to answer the question of time in Rose Unchained. There is no time, only a private "story" time that depends on the whims of the reader._

* * *

Rose is disappointed to learn that Cal had breakfast early—before sunrise—and is long gone to a meeting at a client's downtown office.

"It's Saturday," she pouts at the breakfast table, sitting only with Camille once again. "Why does he have to work?"

"He's an important man," Camille responds, taking a large bite from her scrambled eggs.

Rose crinkles her nose. She finally convinced Camille to let her pick out her own meals. If she's required to finish the plate, she wants to at least like the food. This morning Rose has hot oatmeal, eager to eat something comforting, warm, and familiar. She wishes Cal were at the table, extra needy after their time together the previous night.

"Rose," Camille says once she's swallowed, "did you and Cal even do anything last night?"

Rose looks down at her bowl, "Yeah, kind of. Why?"

"Kind of? He ended up coming to me last night. Late."

Rose nods. "I spent a little time with him, that's it. We didn't do anything." As far as Rose is concerned, this is the truth. She wishes Camille would stop drilling her for information.

"Then what did you do in his room?"

Rose sighs, "I'm broken or something. He was too big for me, and I couldn't do anything."

"Ah."

Rose smiles, "He says before I start up with studies again, my homework in the meantime is to practice for him."

Camille nods, not smiling back. "You'll be ready next time."

"I'm glad he came to you afterward instead. He should have asked you to come to his bedroom to begin with."

"He can do as he pleases."

"So can you. You're a grown woman."

"That's right. And I do. Rose, this is what I please. I love my life here."

Rose laughs, "He says I'd make a really bad whore."

"Rose," Camille's tone is stern, "you're not a whore. I'm not a whore. I believe you have the completely wrong impression. It takes an extremely strong person to care for and love another, unconditionally, for its own sake, and without expecting anything back. It takes great strength to surrender yourself. Serving someone else isn't a weakness—it's a mark of character. Never be afraid to be who you are, even if it's someone who needs others."

Rose nods, all trace of amusement leaving her face. "You really care about Cal."

"I _need_ Cal, Rose. And that's okay. This doesn't reflect poorly on me, or on him, or anyone. It's merely a fact, and I don't pretend to hide it. I don't put up a mask or shell to try to hide my needs. It brings me pleasure to make him happy."

"But don't you want to be needed back as much as you need him?"

Camille shakes her head, "Oh, sweetheart, get rid of the pride and the hubris and everything you've been taught in the cold, calculating world out there. That's not what love is. Love, by definition, loves for its own sake. It's selfless. If you love to get something in return, then you taint it. I can't control what Cal does or feels or thinks. I can only control myself."

Rose thinks for a moment. "Why Cal?" she asks, a faint smile on her lips. Camille blushes, an endearing school girl blush that Rose doesn't expect. "Why not?" she asks. "He's handsome, and powerful, and knows exactly what he wants. I have full faith putting my whole life in his hands, if he'll take it. I believe in dynamics. I think the two of us balance one another out. In his own way, he does need me. He needs me to need him; therefore, I control the situation just as much as he does. The moment I lose my faith in him is the moment he loses all his power over me."

"Camille, does it bother you that I'm here?"

"Cal wants you here."

"That's not what I asked. What do _you_ want?"

"I want what makes Cal happy."

"But does it make _you_ happy?"

"I'm happy when he's happy. I like spending time with you, Rose. I think it's fun to shop for you and have someone around the house with me. I like talking to you. I even like bossing you around," she laughs. "I mean, you usually don't listen, but it's better than nothing. Finish your oatmeal."

Rose laughs and eats a large spoonful. "So you do like to be in control, sometimes."

"I told you, there are different types of control, some more subtle than others. Cal can make me leave, not stay. I'm here of my own free will, and it's an honor. I like you, Rose, I really do. You're quick. I think you're funny. You don't take or dish out bullshit. You're definitely fun to dress up and doll up. But my loyalties are to Cal, entirely, and it's my job to make sure you keep him happy."

* * *

Usually, on long, lazy afternoons when they both feel restless, Camille and Rose do laps in the indoor pool. When Rose brings it up later that morning, however, Camille immediately declines. It's only later, as Rose backpedals through the warm water by herself, staring up through the glass-domed at the murky winter sky, that she starts to understand Camille's sadness and desire to be alone that day. It's not that she's jealous of Cal's lust for Rose. Camille _likes_ herself. She doesn't envy Rose her youth or her body or her hair or anything else, for that matter. Unlike Rose, still struggling to decide who she is and who she wants to be, Camille is certain of what she wants—it's just a matter of getting others to provide it. Camille is hurt because she and Cal have their own private world together, much different than anything Rose has ever heard of or grown used to. Rose is used to precise societal labels: she knows "wife" and "assistant" and "caretaker" and "lover," and, for her, these are all different things with specific requirements. There are no proper labels for Cal and Camille, at least that Rose can think of. In fact, no outside force ever tried to label them before. No one, until Rose, ever carefully observed their relationship—no one, till now, was ever _invited in_.


	8. A Night Out

Camille comes in without knocking.

"What are you doing?" she asks, catching Rose fiddling with her music box. She hastily closes the lid.

"Nothing."

Camille looks at her suspiciously. "Cal got back over an hour ago. Where were you?"

"I must have been in the shower. I didn't know he would be back today."

"He is."

"Are you two going to dinner again?"

"No." Camille shakes her right leg, twisting her ankle on the high heel, like an upset child trying not to cry, "He wants to take you."

"Fuck!" Rose collapses on the bed in exasperation. "What the hell? What does he _want_ from me?"

"Language, child," Camille chastises.

"You aren't serious."

"I'm serious about Cal. Put on something very nice. You're going out in public."

"Camille!"

"What?"

"This isn't right. He should be taking you."

"Cal can do whatever he likes," she answers, repeating her mantra from that morning.

"I don't have anything nice to wear. Tell him I'm not hungry," Rose casts around for an excuse. She's wanted to get out of the house all day, but now that the opportunity's presented itself, she feels anxious.

"I'll do no such thing. He wants to go out to dinner with you. If I were you, I'd be thrilled."

"I'm not. I'm nervous."

"You'll be with Cal. You'll be fine. Take your cues from him, and you'll be fine."

"Can you come too?"

"Don't be a child."

"I _am _a child!"

"Don't be ridiculous. When I was your age . . . I most definitely didn't consider myself a child."

Despite her whining and protests, or maybe because of them, Camille patiently helps Rose get ready.

"I want to wear black," Rose insists, and together they pick out an elegant dress from Camille's own closet, with a low sweetheart cut and lace in the back and along the sleeves.

"It fits perfectly!" Rose marvels.

"Not quite. It's an old dress, but I've never had your body." Camille uses gold pins to secure the waist. "Don't let him stab himself taking it off you." The thought of Cal undressing her should make Rose queasy, but instead it shoots a spark of excitement through her body.

She agrees to wear Camille's stilettos, as well as a wool coat with large mirrored buttons.

"How do you want your hair?" Camille asks her.

"Pig tails. Ribbons."

"I'm leaving it down and curling the ends a little," Camille tells her, ignoring her comments.

* * *

"Did anyone ever tell you you could be a movie star?" Camille asks as Rose stands in front of the three-way mirror in Camille's own porcelain and gold bathroom, both women admiring Rose's transformation.

Rose turns her head from side to side, marveling that this is really her. "Oh, I'd rather go to med school and be a doctor," she answers.

* * *

Cal meets her in the foyer, already ready to go, with his coat on and a black silk scarf around his neck.

He catches sight of Rose at the top of his stairs and beams. He can't help himself. Camille has never seen him this happy before, and she smiles down from behind Rose. She pats her on the shoulder, "Go on sweetheart, have fun," she murmurs and turns to go back up to her room.

"Good night, darling," Cal calls to Camille. Her heart flutters and she turns to grin down at him, grateful for his caring acknowledgment.

"Yes, Sir, you too. Enjoy yourself," Camille tells him, then leaves Rose to face the night alone.

"Take the coat off," Cal tells her when she reaches him. "I want to see what you're wearing."

She obeys, letting Cal take the heavy coat from her. "Interesting," he muses, looking her up and down, then briefly glancing to the spot at the top of the stairs where Camille disappeared.

"Nice?" Rose asks.

"Do you like my shirt?" he mocks, holding her coat out for her, then leading her outside by the small of her back.

"Holy hell," she gasps, stepping into the freezing night. Her breath materializes in front of her in a smoky vapor. He puts his arm across her shoulders and pulls her to him. "I'm sorry, dear, were you spoken to?" he whispers in her ear.

"No, Sir."

"That'll be a thigh spread."

Her heart beats, and something dances in her stomach. Not butterflies. The entire animal kingdom. "Yes, Sir."

"Back or front?" Cal asks. It takes Rose a moment to realize he's asking if she wants to sit in the passenger or the back seat of his car.

"Oh, front please, Sir." He holds the door open as she slides into the sleek black car. Everything inside smells new.

They ride in relative silence, Cal enjoying the feel of the car as it hugs the curves of the road or shoots forward at every green light. Rose obediently remains silent until she's spoken to but thinks it's silly. She wants to ask Cal about his day—how his meeting went, what he had for breakfast, if he thought about her, everything. She wants to tell him about Camille and how he should forget about Rose and focus on her instead, because she needs him and loves him. There are a million things Rose would say if only she weren't chastened into silence.

"Will you eat French food?" Cal finally asks her, as they're already pulling up to what looks like an extremely elegant and expensive restaurant on a ritzy street of shops and lounges. A valet is already running toward them to park the car.

"Yes, Sir," Rose looks back to answer as she's helped out of the car.


	9. Dinner

Rose studies the menu carefully.

"Don't worry, I'll order for you," Cal tells her from across the table.

They're tucked into an intimate corner on the second floor of the restaurant, the sort of swanky, elaborate place Rose has only been to a few times in her life. The walls are carved cherry wood and glass, the tables decorated with white lilies and silver candles, and the prices too extravagant to even mention.

"I can read French, Sir."

"I didn't ask if you could. I'll order," he tells her, taking the menu out of her hands and folding it. "Camille says you're picky. That needs to stop. I expect you to put anything in your mouth that I ask you too."

"Yes, Sir." She sips her water, after refusing to order anything off the drinks menu.

"You know, you could have ordered a Coke or something," he tells her.

"Yes, Sir, I know."

"Rose, why won't you let me feed you properly?"

Rose sets her glass down and looks at him, startled. "I'm sorry, what, Sir?"

"You don't like the food at the house, you don't want to order anything here—how can I make you happy?"

"Happy, Sir?"

"Yes."

"I don't know, Sir. It's not that I don't like the food. It's just that I don't really care." She shakes her head. "I have no idea how you can make me happy. I'm never happy with anything. I don't like things."

He chokes on a laugh, "You don't like anything?"

"Not really, no, Sir. I mean, if you could bring my dad back to life . . . or my mom . . ." she trails off. "I mean, life's always been okay. I just . . . I'm sorry, I don't like that much."

"What do you want to do with your life?"

"I'm not sure. Dance."

"For which dance company?"

"For myself. Only myself. Because I love it. Because it's the one thing I only do for its own sake."

"Ballet?"

"That's my favorite, yes. It's precise, calculated, very controlled. But modern, jazz, tap, ballroom, everything. I'm in love with all of it."

"What about marriage? Kids?"

Rose shrugs, "Sir, I'm only sixteen. I don't think about it that much."

The waiter arrives to take their food order, and Cal proceeds to get what sounds like everything on the entire menu—a cheese sample tray, figs, and corn fritters to start, then eggplant tapas, warm bread salad, duck breast, and, after a quick encouraging glance from Rose, also places their dessert order along with the rest of the food—bread pudding, madeira ice-cream, and a tray of fruit jellies and chocolate truffles.

Rose warms up as she starts eating and the night progresses. The food is some of the best stuff she's ever put in her mouth, and she freely eats from every plate on the now crowded table.

"I'm sorry . . . did you eat _all_ the truffles, _then_ proceed to so much as try all the other food?"

Rose laughs. "Yes, Sir, I have an insatiable sweet tooth."

"What do you like, out of the normal food?"

"Umm, whatever this is, Sir," she says, tapping her fork on something brown and crispy, drizzled in oil and absolutely delicious.

"That, my lovely dear, is the bread. It comes free."

Once they have their fill, and Rose even agrees to sip and taste the red wine from Cal's glass, Cal glances down once more at her dress and asks, "Is that Camille's?"

"Yes, Sir, do you recognize it? She said she hasn't worn it in years."

"She was wearing that the first night we met," he answers.

"What are you thinking?" he asks when Rose remains silent.

"That it was very kind of her to let me wear something that must have so much sentimental value for her. I'm thinking that Camille's kindness is almost unnerving, Sir."

Cal laughs, "Someone being nice to you is unnerving?"

"People don't usually give . . . so freely."

"You did," he reminds her, taking a large sip from his wine glass. "You gave me just about everything I asked for, last night."

She nods, her expression unchanging, "Yes, Sir, I did."

"Should I be unnerved?"

"No, Sir."

"Why not, if kindness is such a rarity for you?"

"My body isn't a great sacrifice, Sir. Not like a dress with great sentimental value."

"You're a dancer. Your body is everything to you."

"Then I sincerely hope, Sir, that you don't break my legs."

Before Cal can answer, they hear a man's voice shout, "Cal!" and they both turn to see a young man waving and rushing toward them. "Cal! He repeats, grinning. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asks, coming up to their table. He's tall and blond, wearing a dark gray suit and slim black tie. His hair is just a bit too long and hangs in his eyes. It's only when he flicks it back in irritation that Rose sees he has the most beautiful blue eyes she's ever seen.

"Waiting for the waiter to come back with my card already," Cal answers. "Unfortunately I'm just a bit too late to dine and dash. What about you? They let you out of your pen at night?"

"Yeah, and I've been wandering around this place looking for the bathrooms for the last seven hours or so. A waiter tried to help me at one point, but it was all Greek or Latin or something, and I distinctly heard some cursing and insults aimed at my mother."

"Bathrooms are right in back," Cal tells him, pointing. "You're almost there."

"I would've been better off using the alley out back, at this point." The man notices Rose at the table for the first time and smiles sheepishly. "Sorry, we're usually better behaved than this. Just excited to see one another outside the work context. I'm Jack," he tells her, holding out his hand.

She shakes his hand but lets Cal answer for her. "This is Rose. Rose, Mr. Dawson. He handles all the Boston cases."

Jack nods. "We learned the hard way that Cal can't actually teleport or be in two places at once."

"Who are you here with?" Cal asks him.

"Ummm. My . . . mom," Jack answers, his expression blank.

"You're a bad liar. This is why I keep you in Boston, where no one can understand the clients through their accents anyway."

"Fiiiine, you know who I'm here with."

"The cheater?" Cal asks, his voice losing the playful tone of their familiar banter.

"Yes."

"You should dump her on the curb."

Jack shrugs, "But I need her."

The waiter approaches from behind Jack and discreetly places the bill back on the table. Cal removes his card from the leather case and slips it back in his wallet.

"See you in the office, then?" he asks Jack.

"Actually I'll probably still be wandering around in here. I see the bathrooms. Not positive I'll find my way back to my table."

"Just use your charm and good looks to get people to help you in your time of need."

"Yes. Rose," he extends his hand toward her again, "it was a pleasure. Don't let him paw you in the car," he winks, and Rose laughs like she's supposed to.

Once Jack leaves their table, they descend to the ground floor, and, on their way toward the door, walk past a stunning blond sitting by herself at a table, looking around for someone. Cal discreetly motions toward her with his chin.

"See her?"

"Yes, Sir."

"That's what an ungrateful whore looks like," he tells Rose, steering her toward the door.


	10. Second Tries

The night doesn't feel so cold anymore.

"Well, kitten, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No, Sir, thank you for taking me."

"Do you want to drive?" Cal's in a good mood, warmed up by the food and wine.

"Yes! Please, Sir, can I?"

He was half-kidding and is surprised by her answer. "Really?" he asks her skeptically. "Do you know _how _to drive?"

"Yes, Sir, my dad loved old cars. He collected them and used to let me take them for spins all the time. I can drive. I've practiced on private roads since I was twelve."

"Hmm. Somehow _private_ roads doesn't reassure me. You really want to drive?"

"Yes, Sir, please."

"It's a stick."

"I can handle a stick, Sir."

"Um, I believe you've proven that actually you can't."

Rose sighs. Now that he's suggested it, she desperately wants to drive the car but realizes he's probably only teasing.

"Fine." Cal slips the cold metal key into her warmed hand. "Try not to kill us both."

Rose takes the wheel, and, sure enough, she drives smoothly, shifting gears without being prompted, hugging the curves in the road. She accelerates and brakes gently, driving the expensive car well. Cal lets her get halfway home before instructing her to pull onto a more deserted road.

"Careful, there're deer," he warns her, and Rose slows down.

Sure enough, the road becomes more wooded, and Rose thinks she can see eyes blinking back at her as she warily looks around. The road winds along a gradual slope, and, slowing and glancing to her left, Rose sees the glimmering city spread out below them. "Beautiful," she murmurs.

"Stop here," Cal says, placing his hand on the wheel as Rose guides the car into a clearing.

"Here, Sir?"

"That's what I said. Kill the engine. Turn off the lights. Good girl. So good at following directions. I should give you something big and powerful to handle more often." For a moment they merely sit and admire the view from the hilltop. "Out of the car," Cal presently says. "You can leave your coat and shoes."

Rose stands beside the passenger door, unsure what Cal wants to do with her. She shivers as he removes something from the trunk.

He slams the trunk, carrying a roll of thick rope in his hand. He takes her by the arm and directs her to one of the bare, blackened trees. She steps carefully, trying not to hurt her stocking-ed feet on the crackling dead leaves and branches underfoot.

"Dress off," he commands, hastily helping her unbutton and slip out of Camille's dress. It pools at her feet in the dirt and gets a bit trampled as they both shift their feet. Her heart is pounding and she's excited for what's going to happen, and yet . . . why is Cal so callous with Camille's dress? Why not pick it up, make sure it doesn't get dirty?

"Arms up."

Rose raises both arms high above her head. Cal stands in front of her and reaches up himself, holding her up until she's on tip-toe, and tying her wrists to a protruding branch using the thick rope. The knot is firm, secure, and a bit tight. Rose struggles to hold her weight and takes her feet off the ground completely when Cal nudges her hip, testing the branch and the rope. "Perfect," he says as Rose sways.

She wants to ask him to pick up the dress and put it back in the car before it's ruined, but she hasn't been spoken to directly. Rose wears nothing but black thigh-highs, and Cal looks her exposed body up and down. He traces a light fingertip down the delicate skin of her throat, fondles her, runs his knuckles under her arm, barely, barely touching skin. It's too much for Rose's ticklish skin. She braces herself against the ground and attempts to push herself back, away from Cal's tickling touch as his knuckles run lightly down her ribs and toward her waist.

"No," he tells her, grabbing her by the small of the back and pulling her close to him. On her tip-toes, she's almost Cal's height, and their lips are only inches apart as she's pulled to him. He kisses her gently, moving his hands to her hips, and murmurs, "Open," into her mouth. She opens her mouth wider, and Cal laughs, genuinely amused. "I meant your legs, but I can work with this," he says, holding his hand sideways and inserting two fingers into her mouth. "Show me how well you can suck," he instructs, pushing his fingers back until he feels her gag reflex.

Rose dutifully sucks, caressing his fingers with her tongue.

"Wider," he says, adding a third finger. "Show me what you're good for."

Rose's throat constricts, and she gags again.

"Not good for much, are you sweetheart? How about this?" he asks, removing his hand from her mouth and inserting the slick fingers between her legs, all the way to the knuckle. "Any good at making yourself wet?" Cal asks Rose, slowly beginning to pump his fingers in and out. "There you go. At least you're good for something," he tells her as her body instantly accommodates his slow thrusts. "Although," he removes his fingers and places them back in her mouth, letting her taste herself as she continues sucking, doing her best to dutifully let him push his fingers back without gagging, "I'm doing quite a bit of the work." He pushes further back. This time Rose doesn't gag. "Aren't I, sweetheart?" he asks sternly, pulling his hand away.

"Yes, Sir," she immediately answers.

"Good girl. Spread those legs. Wide."

Trusting Cal's knot to hold her weight, Rose takes her feet completely off the ground, then wraps her legs around Cal's hips.

"Open everything for me," he instructs, putting a supportive arm around her hips and angling them forward. He looks up and catches her eyes. "Everything," he emphasizes, holding her jaw and opening her mouth. "Tongue out," he instructs, then takes his hand from under her chin and moves it to the waistband of his pants. His weight shifts momentarily, then his hand is back, cocked to the side like a gun, with two, then three fingers, deep down Rose's throat.

"Hold it. Don't—" but Rose is already gagging. He takes his hand out and slaps her cheek, not hard enough to sting, but just enough to startle her. "What did I just say? Are you a useless little whore?"

"No, Sir."

"Are you good for something?"

"Yes, Sir."

"What are you good for, sweetheart?"

"Making you happy, Sir."

"Good answer," he smiles. "We're going to try this again. Show me how useful you can be," Cal says, placing his fingers back in her mouth. "Tongue out," he reminds her. "Good girl."

Cal removes his arm from her waist, and Rose wraps her legs tighter as he puts his other hand between her legs. "Were you always a good girl?" he asks, moving his hand so that he cups her gently under the chin and only his fingertips are left in her mouth.

"Yes, Sir," she tells him, sucking and speaking around his fingers, her voice coming out muffled and alien.

"Never got in trouble?"

"No, Sir."

"Liked to make your teachers happy?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good," Cal says, his hand pumping harder and faster between her legs. "That means you did your homework like a good girl? Got your body ready for me this time?"

Rose's cheeks turn pink, "Yes, Sir."

Cal removes his hand from between her legs and puts it back around her waist for support. She whimpers, aching for his touch again, but immediately he thrusts forward, into her. She cries out, pitching her head forward and trying to bury her head in his shoulder, but instead this merely causes his fingers to shove down her throat.

Cal stays still, buried inside her. "Rose," he says, his tone calm, even, but with a tinge of warning. "Did you lie to me? Did you practice?"

He takes his right hand out of her mouth and wraps both arms around her. She rests her forehead on his shoulder, letting her hair fall forward to hide most of her face. "No, Sir," she admits in a small, muffled voice.

He grabs her hair and pulls her head back, looking her straight in the eyes. "Look at me. Speak up when you talk to me. Did you lie to me, sweetheart?"

"Yes, Sir," Rose replies, shaking.

"Did you get your body ready for me like I asked?"

"No, Sir."

"So are you useful to me?"

"Yes, Sir."

"How? How are you useful? You're nearly crying, and I'm barely in you."

"I'm sorry, Sir." Her eyes glisten with unfallen tears, from pain or genuine regret Cal isn't sure. He releases his grip on her hair and places a gentle hand under her chin, wiping away the tears starting to fall.

"Are you alright?" he asks softly, starting to push in and out inside her.

"Yes, Sir," she whispers back, closing her eyes.

"Does it feel good?"

Rose doesn't answer.

"Tell me if it feels good," Cal instructs, still soft-spoken, but with a sternness in his voice this time.

"It hurts, Sir."

"If I untied you, let you lay down . . .?" Cal asks, thinking, hoping, Rose is referring to the rope digging into her wrists, or maybe the position.

She keeps her eyes closed. "It hurts, Sir," she repeats, her voice soft, sad, enduring the pain but asking for mercy. Cal nods, holds her hips still, and pulls out. Her mouth opens in relief. She finally opens her eyes. "Thank you, Sir."

He puts a hand on the small of her back to support some of her weight. "Legs down," he instructs, and, carefully, Rose goes back on tip-toe. "I'm sorry, Sir."

"Don't be sorry. I'll make you useful yet," Cal tells her, swiftly untying her and releasing her arms. The rope falls, and Rose brings her arms down to rubs her sore wrists. "Turn around," Cal orders. He pulls her arms behind her and ties them securely just above the elbow, so that Rose's shoulders are pulled back, her back straight, and her chest pushed out. He turns her back around to face him. "On your knees," he instructs, and Rose obliges.

This is when he misses Camille's intuition. "Is that the proper position to suck my cock?" Rose looks up at him, uncertain. "Thighs spread. Ass out," he trains her, gathering her hair in a ponytail at the base of her neck and using his grip to bring her mouth to him. Sure enough, Rose spreads her legs and leans forward, her mouth opening without Cal even needing to say anything. She tentatively licks his tip, and her eagerness excites him.

"Did I say you could start sucking?" he asks.

She pulls back an inch, as much as his hand at the back of her neck will allow. "No, Sir."

"Beg me for it."

Rose hesitates. "Please Sir, can I suck your cock?"

"Show me how much you want it. Kiss it. Stroke it." Rose obliges, and, finally, he lets her take his cock in her mouth. "Mmm," Rose closes her eyes, this time from pleasure. It tastes good, feels right. This she can do.

"Tongue out, nice and deep," Cal reminds her, pushing her head forward, till he's tickling the back of her throat. "All the way," he orders, pushing even deeper. Rose relaxes her throat, catching herself before she gags. "You like the taste of that?"

Rose nods as best she can. "Can you breathe?" There's only a garbled murmur in response. He grasps her hair tightly and pulls her head back. "Breathe," he commands. Rose gulps in air. "Back down, nice and deep," he tells her. The refrain is soothing. Rose trusts him. She breathes when he tells her, sucks when he says she can. He pushes himself deeper down her throat. "Are you ever going to lie to me again?" Cal asks, roughly pulling her out so that she can breathe and answer, "No, Sir, never." He pushes her back onto his cock. "And when I tell you to do something, are you going to do it?" He pulls her out. Deep breath. "Yes, Sir, always." Back down. "You like sucking cock, don't you?" Out. Deep breath. "Yes, Sir, definitely."

"Show me what you can do," he orders, letting Rose angle her head and suck at her own pace. He moves his hands from her hair to her shoulders, thrusting despite his best efforts to keep still. He'd wanted to hold out as long as he could, but Rose is just too good, too eager, lets him go too deep. He thrusts deep, feeling her lips, her tongue, the warmth and wetness of her mouth. Good God, if only she'd practiced . . .

* * *

Cal walks Rose all the way to her bedroom door. She feels proud of herself and content with the evening, even if Camille's dress did get a bit torn and dirty. Even feeling Cal's hand on the small of her back thrills her. No one has ever made her feel this way before. She's spent the whole evening with him, yet she already misses him. She wishes she could sleep beside him tonight, just to feel his warmth and strength. He pushes her past limits she never knew she had. She wants him, more and more of him. All of him.

"Goodnight, kitten," Cal says, bringing her to her door.

He brushes a fingertip down her throat, then her chest. "You're happy?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You're pleased?"

"Yes, Sir."

He brushes lightly between her legs. "Mmm, not quite. You didn't get your release tonight."

"No, Sir, I didn't," she admits.

"Then I sincerely hope," he tells her, bringing his lips close to hers and gently stroking her cheek, "that this encourages you to _practice_." He kisses her long and deep, his tongue forceful. Still embracing her, he opens the door, steps her backward into her room, then lets go and turns to leave. "Goodnight," he calls out, already walking away.


End file.
